Evening

I know this book had words; they fell from the trees

while the wind rattled and the jacket zipped up to your chin.

I know that the white page of the snow

took your signature in boots, swirls of letters

where your feet could not clear the roots.

Deep in his cup the old man fishes up a word

for his son: when your breath rattles so near your teeth

you will know what this means.

But the man sees his eyes dart and knows

that he will never know what this means.

I know this book had words; they gathered like clumps of dust

on the wooden floor of a house where I clutched you.

Pecans fell upon the roof in the autumn, green as muddy ponds,

a cat stalking thin snakes in the garden;

I played in a southern sun, a furnace.

I thought this book had words.  They are mine, now,

as much myself as the shore and the mountain.

A bird slips into the sky, his wings laboring, and he wants

more than anything to call as he falls,

but the wind keeps blowing

his voice back into his throat.

Poem and Photograph Copyright 2010 The Otter



Comments

[Michelle]

This is absolutely gorgeous.(And so is the picture.) Well done!

[Jennifer in AZ]

So, when is your book of poetry coming out? <drooling in anticipation>

[klomperklaus]

Breathtaking. Thank you.

[Otter]

Jennifer: depends. Are you a publisher? If so, it's all over but the shouting. My fortune is made.

If not, it might be awhile.